Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice Read Online Free PDF Page A

in Victoria, got the phone in and put small ads in the trades, in the locals. Here’s what it read:
    ‘Cat got yer tongue
they’ve got yer car
if you want to re-possess
give us a bell
THE R.R. ( RIGHTEOUS REPO ).’
    And fuck me, ain’t it rich, the business took off. According to the Met, there’s a car nicked every two seconds in inner London alone. Jeez we were swamped. Had to take on staff and rent more space. Exciting too, see how long it took to track and move a vehicle. Then the movie came out,
Repo Man
with Emilio Estevez. Business boomed. I half fancied I was a touch like Emilio meself, that broody dark shit … yeah. You figure we packed in the banks? Never happen, no way. The Doc had my number. It was my very adrenaline, the juice in my veins. Sure, I liked the repo, the cars it brought me in contact with, the money, but it was like comparing a hand job to wild sex, a spoon of shandy up against a bottle of Walker.
    We figured on a few rules early. No partners, strictly a two-man operation. If it needed more, then pack it in. Trust no one. The Doc had a prayer for us:
    ‘God keep us smart, fast
and mobile
the rest we’ll handle
ourselves.’
    Seems God was listening. Then.
    We must have got Him on a good day. Thing is, I reckon He enjoys a bit of villainy too. Else how to account for the Tory party. And mostly what we got was careful. Kevin Costner as Elliot Ness in
The Untouchables
is urged by his wife to be careful. He says, ‘like mice at a crossroads’.
    Learnt the shit as we went along too. Out with the wool balaclavas, got us some light cotton jobs. No cumbersome gloves either. Those surgical skin-fit ones that make people instinctively edgy.
    Experimented with the art of deception. The Doc would wear a larger size shoe and we’re talking big here, and bring along flour or baking soda. Sprinkle some of that on our way in and leave a nice clear print. Jeez, the filth adore a cosy fat clue. I had some fun with tattoos, those washable chaps. Put ‘I Love Me Old Mum’ in bold letters on my arm and let the sleeve ride up as I scooped the cash. Some whiz-kid bank trainee was hot to trot. A major breakthru for the investigation. After that one, half the old lags who lived with their Mums were rounded up. Even the Krays got a shout. Accents too, throw in some rasta and half of Brixton got turned over. We didn’t fuck with the Irish though. Doc said, ‘The last … the very last thing we want … is for the boyos to get pissed with us.’
    I took his word on that.
    Neither of us smoked so we ensured we dropped butts on our exit and all over the abandoned motor. One raid, Doc procured insulin and left the half-empty phial under the seat. That made it to CrimeStoppers. Kept our mouths tight shut. No braggin’, no hints, nada.
    Things got hairy too. An old dear had a heart attack on our Hatton Cross job. Doc wanted to send flowers and cash. I lost it.
    ‘The fuck you saying …? You want to be Robin Hood, is that it … have the public love us. Jeez, mebbe we could cut a record. We’re in this for cash, not friggin’ sentiment.’
    He sent the cash anyway. I could have sent the flowers.
    Arnold L. White. Is that a name or wot. Our accountant. I wasn’t going to prison for VAT or any of that sneaky crap. He had an office in Camberwell. I had to ask, ‘What’s the L for?’
    ‘Leopold.’
    ‘You’re winding me up.’
    ‘Do I look like a kidder, as if humour is my forte?’
    He didn’t.
    Looked like a sour priest and hey, that’s how it should be. Money is a sacred business. He had a cheeky secretary named Iris, a pushy blonde, all mouth and nastiness.
    I gave her one. Call it duty, to keep tabs on Leopold. She was the worst kind of leg-over … loud, came roaring and shouting as if I’d murdered her. The French call orgasm the little death. Guess they hadn’t heard of Iris. No doubts with that lady, she knew what she wanted and rode the daylights outa me. After, she’d say, ‘I’d kill for a